


A Tragedy of Her Own Making

by BloodiedRose



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: F/M, Guilt, Infertility, Nora-focused, Snippets, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodiedRose/pseuds/BloodiedRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of the life of Nora Morgan, beginning at her death and finishing when she was a girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tragedy of Her Own Making

**Author's Note:**

> Nora Morgan is possibly the most interesting character to me in this series, and I wanted to explore her from her own perspective rather than Henry's understandably bitter lenses. 
> 
> This is dedicated to Truthisademurelady on tumblr, who not only gave me the courage to post this but also the ability to do so. Lovely woman, beautiful writer, and as far as I know she loves Nora as much as I do.

On her deathbed, Nora Morgan sends her husband a letter. She does not know if he will receive it, or read it, or come to see her afterwards. She does not know much of anything anymore. She may have mentioned in her letter that she was dying- she could not remember. She did not know if Henry would care.

Henry had had her sent to a home in the country, said her lapse of judgement was due to her mental faculties failing in her old age. He kept her out of Bedlam- more than she did for him. It was more kindness than she could ever show in a similar situation, and it hurt more than the worst revenge. 

She had known she would not last long, the devil eager to take her down to hell once she had taken an innocent life. Another sin for the traitorous wife. She knew her crimes, she accepted her fate. Yet she wished to apologise, to see Henry’s face once more. In her fever dreams, he was beside her, weathered by age as she was but still so handsome. Still her beloved Henry. 

Nora Morgan was already dead when Henry arrived, disguised in fear that one would recognise his face. Nora Morgan was dead, and all she wanted to say died with her. 

*

She had not meant to shoot the girl. She had not, she had not, she had not. So young, bleeding to death on the hospital floor. It was meant to be Henry. Henry, who would shine and vanish and be seen as the beautiful miracle he was, not this young girl who would only be a lifeless corpse murdered by a senile old woman.

Nora tried not to think of the similarities between the young girl and the woman she had once been. Back when Henry still loved her. Back when she had betrayed him. But she did think of that, and she wanted to shoot her dead again. Again and again and again. She wanted herself dead again and again and again. 

*

Some days it was too much effort to open her eyes. Guilt had become a living monster, eating her innards and strangling her life away. Everyone pitied her, a woman consumed by a widow’s grief. No one thought Henry as anything more than dead. But she knew better, knew the day she went to visit him in the increasingly vain hope that he was healthy enough for her to take him home and they told her he was missing.

The priest that had shared Henry’s room had told her that Henry was free, and nothing more, and she hated him for it. Hated herself for it. Because she could see the chains now clear as day and hear the screams that were far more than just tormented minds. She had damned her husband to this place.

She was still Nora Morgan, refusing to move past her mourning garments and clinging to a ‘dead’ man’s name. Some men had attempted to suit her, and had failed, and had left promptly. And she stayed there, gazing at the only portrait of her and Henry that she had. Silent like a ghost, except for the nights when she would have screaming matches with Henry’s accusing eyes.

*

He looked awful. Pale and gaunt, in ill fitting and filthy garments that he would never have worn if he had choice in the matter. Henry’s clothes reminded her too much of the straight jacket they had pulled him away in, as she stood in her resolve to let them take Henry no matter how he pleaded.

They promised that he would get better here. Because people did get better, in Bedlam. And once he was healthy again, he would return home, and she would plead his forgiveness prostrated before him. He would understand. He would hurt, as he certainly did now, but he would understand. He would see how irrational his actions were, how horrible it was to see her Henry come to pieces in such a terrible way. How hopeless and desperate her own actions had been.

He would understand, because he would be better, and they could be happy and grow old together. He had to understand. He had to get better. By all that was good in the world he needed to get better, even if he hated her for the rest of their lives.

*

How could she believe this? How could Henry believe this? Henry had always had such a scientific mind, forsaking the concepts of ghosts and curses and what else people claimed. Henry had abandoned religion because he had no evidence as proof.

Nora had always admired that about him. She too had abandoned the fantastical beliefs of her younger sisters, had decried the staunch protestantism her father had observed. The fantastical belonged in tales and children’s minds. It was foolish otherwise.

So how could Henry, scientific Henry, claim to be immortal? She knew that the ship had sunk, had mourned him because of it, but survival was not immortality. What had happened to him, for him to claim such a preposterous thing?

But then he was pressing a blade to his wrists, promising to prove it to her. But immortality did not exist, it could not exist, and she had just lost her husband she could not lose him again. She could not bear to see Henry, bleeding to death in her arms, promising that he would show her proof of his delusion until his final breath. Or perhaps, he would regain his senses once it was too late, once the deed was done and he was beyond saving. She did not know what was worse, the manic spark or the terrified regret.

“I believe you!” Nora cried, and Henry gathered her up in his arms, and she wanted to weep. She had betrayed him, was betraying him now, but Henry did not deserve to die in such a horrible way. She could not bear such a great man meeting such a terrible end.

*

He was safe. He was alive, and real, and she could hold him in his arms and kiss him and hear his voice because he was there. Her Henry had returned, unharmed, and she was just so happy. The world was brighter, and every moment her heart sang, and sometimes Henry looked so sad but it was alright. He had returned to her, even though she had lost hope that he would, even though she had buried him and wept like a beast. 

Henry was alive.

*

Nora felt as if the world had crumbled. Henry was dead. How could he be dead, he had promised he would return shortly. Henry had never broken a promise to her. How could he be dead when there was no body for her to bury. If she could not bury him then she could not believe this horrible lie, and so her heart would wake every day expecting him home.

Though she had wailed when she had first heard the news, acceptance had come slowly, numbing her like a terrible chill. One morning she woke up, and it was the truth of the world, that Henry was dead. She would never see him again, and that was all there was. 

The tombstone was too cold to be Henry, because Henry was always alive and loving, warm even when he cried into her nape as he learned what his father had done. She had damned her father-in-law that day for shattering her love’s views of the world. And now he had broken him, and killed him, and Nora wondered how much you could damn a man before there was no further in hell he could go.

*

It had been several years, and yet they had no children. Everyone was beginning to whisper, for a couple so in love should certainly by now have conceived several children, yet they had none. Both Henry and Nora had grown in families of three or more, and enjoyed the idea of children greatly.

Henry always looked so sad with each passing year they went without children. He had no heir, which haunted her thoughts like a plague. If he wished to abandon her in pursuit of one who could provide, she would understand. Men needed an heir.

But for Henry, she could always tell it was more than issue. His face lit up each time he spoke to a child, even more so if he was allowed to play with them. Infants fit into his arms as if they were a piece of him, and every child loved him.

Henry was born to be a father, and Nora felt so guilty for not being able to fulfil this. But whenever she expressed it, even if not aloud, Henry would kiss her, and tell her that his life was more than fulfilled with her by his side. And she agreed. She could live without children, as long as she could live with Henry.

*

Henry never looked as exhausted as her after long days and nights and days again in surgery. No patients had passed on their watch the past few days, and for that he was smiling, and when Henry smiled the world shone as if it were entirely made of candles. 

She leaned into him, her eyelids heavy as he directed her to their bedroom. She found herself drifting between sleep and wake, and he laughed as she lolled as if she was a doll. She mumbled something, neither of them knew what, and he kissed her on her forehead.

Gently, Henry picked her up and carried her to the bed, dressed in her nightgown now, and tucked the bedclothes around her. Soon, he climbed into bed beside her, and held her in his arms.

Nora enjoyed resting her hand on Henry’s chest, feeling his heartbeat thrumming in his chest. She imagined his books, diagrams of the heart and she marvelled that this small thing could bring so much joy to her world. 

Henry began playing with her tight curls, and she smiled, letting herself drift off to sleep. She never felt safer than in Henry’s arms, as if the world could tumble all around them but they would be fine by each other’s side. As long as she had him beside her, she could walk around the entire world.

*

He was a beautiful man. Pale skin, dark hair, poise perfectly elegant and clothes without a single fault. He smiled politely, engaged in what appeared riveting conversation with his fellow gentleman, and threw as many glances her way as he could manage. Yes, Henry Morgan was certainly a beautiful man.

“He wishes to court you,” her next eldest sister swore each time. It would not be untoward; he the young doctor from a remarkably wealthy family, she of similar wealth and class. Their fathers were good friends, and her father had mentioned marriage far more in recent times than he had before. It would be a good match.

Yet, when he asked her to dance, she felt butterflies in her heart, and she wondered if she would ever be as happy if she was not with him. When they were wed, she had the same butterflies, and she wondered if her happiness would burst from her chest, dancing around the room and setting the world alight. In that moment, she did not think she could ever truly be sad again. 

*

Nora liked to entertain the fantasy of love. She knew it did not matter, that her family was of greater importance than her heart, and she always strove to make her family proud. But still, she would greatly enjoy it if she could fall in love once, just once.

Her sister had a foolish idea of marrying the one she loved, and Nora pitied her. Some dreams were never meant to come true, and for her youngest sister to have her heart so set on such an absurd fantasy was upsetting. She swore to herself that she would hold her sister while she cried when that dream inevitably came crashing down. 

But Nora would have liked to fall in love, or if not that to be able to enjoy her future husband, to be able to befriend him and be comfortable to together and be able to spend their time together. Yes, she doubted she would ever find love. But it would be nice if she did.

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic in quite a while, so I'm a bit rusty. Also, I apologise for any historical inaccuracies, this period is not one of my strong suits. Comments are welcome, if you so desire.


End file.
